


Beyond These Hills

by darthmelyanna, miera



Series: stargate_ren [13]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-30
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2019-09-30 07:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthmelyanna/pseuds/darthmelyanna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miera/pseuds/miera
Summary: In the wake of a Goa'uld invasion, Caldora seeks aid beyond its borders, and its people face a future full of change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This story was written by sache_8, an occasional contributor to the series. She also wrote Stranger in a Strange Land and co-wrote The Summit with Mel.]
> 
> I've known melyanna for a very long time. From our green days in the _Star Wars_ fandom (ah, memories), to the high that was the great _Lord of the Rings_ era, all the way to Stargate. I act as sounding board for quite a lot of Mel's fic. In the case of stargate_ren I've resisted this privilege as much as I can, because I love the thrill of reading the stories unspoiled. Still, I knew a few vague tidbits here and there about the girls' plans for the future of the series. For some reason, what little I knew about Caldora began to niggle at the back of my mind, until at last I asked for permission to try fleshing out a few of my own thoughts. Graciously, they agreed. For a long time, this fic was simply referred to by me as "The Caldora sketches" and they went through many changes (both drastic and subtle) before they were finally right. I hope you all enjoy them. -- sache8

**PART ONE – CAMERON**

The lands of the shepherds were fierce and green. The cool shade of the Talas Mountains and the many fingers of the Mearali River provided leagues and leagues of lush grazing. Farmers had little interest in that part of the country. Hillsides were difficult enough to plow without trying to battle the rocky soil as well.

The people who lived there were also fierce, and very, very proud. The House of Sheppard was the guardian of two of Caldora’s borders, and its people had long been renowned as some of the country’s mightiest soldiers. They were shepherds _and_ warriors. It was, Cameron Mitchell often reflected, a perpetually odd combination.

It was a gloriously sunny afternoon, and Cameron and his squire were playing a habitual game of scald with some of the village’s older children. The game involved throwing a hard leather ball around a circle of people as fast as possible. The scald ball was about the size of a half-grown melon, and could sting like his grandmother’s tongue if thrown hard enough. The first round began with many players in a small circle. The first player to drop the ball in each round was out, and stepped off to the side. Meanwhile, the remaining players took one large stride backwards apiece, widening the circle with every round, until there were only two players remaining. At that point, it became a back and forth game, and the pace kept by the very best players was highly exhausting.

The field outside the village walls where they were playing their game had not yet begun to thaw, but it soon would. The ground was still hard, but the air had already lost most of its lethal bite. The children wore their lighter coats, and some had shed them altogether. Cameron knew more than one mother in the village who would be happier not to discover that particular bit of daring.

In later days, it struck Cameron as a cruel injustice that news of the Goa’uld invasion arrived on such a day.

They were on their seventh game and only five players remained: Cassandra, daughter of Mistress Janet the midwife, Valencia, and Will of Warring stood eastward in the field, their backs to the village. The fourth was Cameron’s squire, Nicholas Elliot, so named for his place of birth, a village near Redwater Castle. Then of course there was Cameron, who usually let himself make it to the eighth or ninth round before dropping the ball on purpose. Cameron was the first to hear the distant, pounding hoof beats, and looked back, unfortunately just as Nicholas fired the ball right at him, where it caught him square in the stomach.

Cameron doubled over and staggered backwards a couple of steps. Between the sudden outburst of children’s laughter all around him and the distraction of trying to get his breath back, he momentarily lost track of the sound of distant galloping.

“Sorry, sir,” Nicholas said, who had, along with Valencia, come quickly to Cameron’s side. Each had taken one of Cameron’s arms, and was helpfully trying to upright him again. Though Nicholas’s voice conveyed genuine concern, Cameron also detected a hint of amusement the younger man couldn’t quite conceal. “You didn’t look away until after–”

“It’s all right,” Cameron assured him, thumping his friend on the shoulder even as he shrugged his would-be helpers away. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Valencia turned to take the ball from her younger brother, who had retrieved it from the cold ground a moment before. “Next round?” she said hopefully, holding it up to the others. Not for the first time, Cameron marveled that she could manage the ball at all with such small hands, much less make it repeatedly to the final stages of the game.

No one answered her question, though. Cameron hadn’t forgotten the cause of his distraction, and now the hoof beats could be heard much louder and much closer. By this time, all heads had turned toward the sound, and the rider could be seen below them in the valley. He was just about to cross the river.

“Cameron?” Cassandra asked for all of them, glancing back at him with concern. Her pale red hair hung in a braid on her shoulder, and her hands were set worriedly on her hips as she squinted at the distant rider.

“All right, children, the game is over,” Cameron called. “Go on home; your parents will be expecting you for supper.”

By the time the group had all been herded back inside the village’s main gate, the rider, one of the marquis’ sentries on the Goa’uld border, was nearly upon them. As soon as he recognized Cameron, he brought the heaving stallion to an abrupt, almost violent halt.

“My Lord Mitchell,” he addressed hastily. He gave a respectful nod of his head, but did not dismount. “I must speak with the marquis immediately.”

“I suspected that might be the case, Samson,” Cameron said, nodding in return. He glanced at Nicholas, who stood dutifully beside him, then back at the sentry. “Hurry on, then. We will join you as quickly as we can.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Scarcely half an hour later, Cameron found himself standing at his uncle’s side, listening to Samson tell them his eyewitness report of a massive Goa’uld army that was now marching swiftly across the river.

On the outside, Cameron managed to contain his shock and alarm, a testament to his thorough military training. On the inside, however, he was quite a lot of things: disbelieving, anxious, and most of all, angry. His mind raced through all the ramifications this unexpected invasion could have for Caldora, and his lips pressed more and more tightly together as Samson concluded his report.

“I’ve never before heard of the Goa’uld being so unified in their warfare,” Samson concluded. “What could have inspired them to muster together so strongly?” He shook his head, glancing between liege-lord and heir worriedly.

“Questioning the motives of the Goa’uld is a wasteful exercise,” the Marquis of Sheppard remarked with a scowl. “The answer is always the same – greed.” Samson lowered his head deferentially, and the marquis continued. “The real question is how we proceed.” He sighed. “Go and get some rest, Samson. I’m sure you were riding all night.”

The sentry gratefully accepted the dismissal. As soon as he was gone, Cameron asked, “How much time do we have?”

“For a force the size he’s talking about? A good four days, more than likely, but to be safe we’ll pretend it’s only three.”

“Enough time to get the villagers to Madrona.”

“That is my thought as well. Also enough time for you to reach the king.”

“Uncle–” Cameron began in protest. He’d known this battle was coming, and he knew he’d lose, but he couldn’t help but want to wage it.

“Do not waste your breath arguing with me, Cameron,” Geoffrey of Sheppard said, his eyes flashing fiercely, hinting at a fire inside that had not dimmed despite his failing body. “He will need your help drawing up a national defense. I cannot squander your talents by selfishly keeping you in Sheppard.”

Overexcited, the marquis gave a few rough coughs, waving away his nephew’s attempts to help him as he grudgingly found the nearest place to sit down. Then he gave a heavy sigh and stared forlornly out the window with tired eyes.

Cameron studied his uncle, remembering a time when this man had seemed a giant in his eyes. His shock of thick, white hair had once been black as midnight, a trait that had been inherited by all six of his sons. His shoulders had not then carried a stoop. His lungs had not carried disease. He had been the kind of man that little boys believed would live forever.

The village of Briar Bank, where Geoffrey now resided, was not the official seat of the House of Sheppard. In fact, it was barely anything worthy of note, but the marquis had journeyed to this little hamlet hoping that a change in scenery – open skies and fewer people – would improve his health, which had been on a slow decline for the last couple of years.

“And while you’re there,” Geoffrey added, more softly, “you can ask him to pardon John.”

Cameron gave a start. Although Geoffrey rarely mentioned John or the exile, the two always seemed to linger in his thoughts, always there in the sorrow that filled the old man’s eyes.

“My lord?” Cameron stammered, surprised.

Geoffrey turned. “You heard me, Cameron. I feel certain that this new war will be my death. I would see my son again before I die. And if that is not possible, I would have his name restored. While you are in court you will present my petition to the king.”

“Yes, my lord,” Cameron dutifully replied. Not that he was hard-pressed to agree with his uncle’s sentiments. John’s exile had been unjust. Besides that, with John gone and his five older brothers dead, Cameron was the next in line to be Marquis of Sheppard. He had yet to come to terms with the idea, even four years after John’s banishment.

Dusk had long given way to night when Cameron finally left his uncle’s rooms. The marquis had already lit all the candles and arrayed his writing materials on the desk, preparing to write his appeal to the king as Cameron closed the door.  
  
The building where Geoffrey had taken up residence was the property of a local innkeeper, whose family had been set up quite comfortably for the duration of the marquis’ stay. This meant, among other features, it boasted a large common room and tavern below, which was currently full to the brim with murmuring soldiers and villagers. The noised increased drastically as Cameron came down the staircase, and he was immediately pressed from all sides.

“Lord Mitchell! Is it true they’re less than a day away?”

“What is the marquis going to do?”

Cameron shrugged off every question long enough to retrieve a chair that he could stand on. This accomplished, it took several gestures to quiet everybody down.

“It’s true,” he said. “The Goa’uld are marching across the river, but they are not,” he added, raising his voice to overcome the surge of murmuring that met his opening words, “at our doorstep. Not yet. We have time.

“As soon as they’re rested, the scouts will be sent on to warn the surrounding villages. In the meantime, we’re packing up. The marquis has commanded that your village is to seek refuge in Madrona.”

He held up his hand and glared warningly as he was once again barraged with questions and protests, each more adamant than the last. “You’ll receive more instructions as the night goes on,” he said. “For now, return to your homes and begin gathering your belongings. Anybody with a wagon in good repair, get it ready. All livestock is permitted, as well as extra clothing, and foodstuffs for the road. No valuables unless they can easily be carried on your person. We need to travel light. We’ll leave after midday tomorrow.”

Just before he jumped down from the chair, Cameron searched the crowd and caught Nicholas’s eye, then jerked his head meaningfully toward the door. It took a few minutes to fight his way out through the agitated crowd, but he finally managed. As soon as he was outside, Nicholas took up pace beside him, and together they began walking toward the town commons. Every house had its lamps lit, so the going was easy.

“Nicholas,” Cameron began seriously. “You’re going to need to take my place supporting the marquis. He will need your help.”

Nicholas stopped in his tracks, and Cameron stopped as well, turning to see the surprise registered on the younger man’s face. “What?” Nicholas asked.

Cameron sighed. “I’m not coming with you to Madrona. My uncle has commanded me ride to Redwater with all speed to warn the king.”

Nicholas took several long moments to digest this news, during which time he made a point of closing his mouth again. Cameron knew his friend well enough to recognize the younger man’s alarm and uncertainty. Nicholas hadn’t expected a command of this kind for several more years. Cameron could sympathize. He had hoped to delay his first visit to court a while longer. Certainly he would not have chosen these circumstances.

Cameron turned back to the quick stride they had abandoned, forcing Nicholas to follow. “Follow the road east, but only for about three leagues,” Cameron began his instruction. “Break north as soon as the terrain permits. When you reach Nettle Creek, I would follow it. You’ll lose about half a day, but you’ll have good water and you can warn the herd masters you meet along the way. They’ll be able to use the flocks to cover your tracks.”

“Lord Mitchell!!”

A woman’s shout interrupted them, coming from further down the street. Recognizing the voice as that of Mistress Janet, Cameron halted and looked around until he spotted her. She was hastening in his direction, her long skirts held up out of the mud as she made her way nimbly in his direction.

“Lord Mitchell,” she said matter-of-factly the moment she was close enough to avoid shouting. “I’ve got two invalids on my hands and a girl who could deliver any day. What on earth do you expect me to do with them on this excursion of yours?” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him expectantly.

Cameron had known this woman for many years, but her ability to command attention never ceased to amaze him. It was all the more astounding when he considered that she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Now her brown eyes were fixed on him, challenging.

“Lord Geoffrey has already designated one of his own wagons be turned over entirely to your use, Janet,” he assured her, hiding his smugness that together he and his uncle had premeditated this scene. “You may bring whatever you think necessary, and I’ll command my men to make anything you don’t have.”

Janet’s expression had already changed from wary to pleased and approving. She gave a brusque nod. “I’ve already got Cassie and Valencia making extra bandages and packing up the herbs,” she said, “but I could use a good litter. I can settle Peter in the wagon bed, but young Simon’s injury is too sensitive to be subjugated to all that jostling.”

“Then you shall have it.”

“My thanks, Lord Mitchell, to you and your uncle.”

“The wagon is at the inn right now, but I’ll have Nicholas here bring it to your house shortly. He’ll see to it you get a safe place in the column tomorrow.”

An odd look flicked over her face. “What about you?” she asked slowly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I’ll be leaving just before dawn,” Cameron said quietly.

Janet pondered this information for a moment, glancing between the two men before she gave a knowing nod. “Safe journey, then, Lord Mitchell,” she said. “Tell the king to hurry.” She turned and began walking back the way she’d come.

“Mistress Janet!” Cameron called, halting the small woman. As she turned to face him again, he stepped near enough that he could lower his voice. “No one else knows,” he said quietly.

She gave a small smile. “You may count on my discretion, Lord Cameron,” she said. “Only… come and say goodbye to the girls before you leave, won’t you? They’re both very fond of you.”

It was a long and tiring night. Cameron felt like he was everywhere at once. There were axles to be mended, horses to be shod, old women and young men to be argued with, and nagging at the back of his mind the whole night was the knowledge that in a few hours’ time, he’d be embarking on a long, hard ride with no sleep to speak of. It was not an experience he was looking forward to.

And yet, somewhere between the bouts of terror and guilt there were glimmers of excitement. It was a secret he’d always held close, so close that he did not even permit himself to think on it very often, but Cameron had always had an urge to just ride, as fast as he could, as far as he could, and see what lay beyond the borders of his life.

About an hour before dawn, he climbed the stairs of the inn once more and knocked on his uncle’s door. A quiet call permitted him to enter.

Only two candles remained lit, the others having burned down in the course of the night. Geoffrey’s writing materials had been neatly put away, but the old man still sat at the secretary, staring with his hand on his mouth at the letter that lay before him, tightly scrolled and sealed.

“My lord, everything is well on its way to readiness,” Cameron informed him. “I’ve given Nicholas instructions for everything I can think of. Anything else… well, he can look to you, my lord.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Good work, Cameron.”

“If your missive is ready, I can depart within the hour.”

With a sigh, the marquis got to his feet and took the scroll off the table. “Do not overtax yourself, my boy,” he said as he put it into Cameron’s hand. “Haste is key, but rest when you must.” He put a hand on Cameron’s arm in a fatherly manner, and stared at him for a long moment. Then he did something he’d never before done, and pulled Cameron into a tight embrace. “Be safe,” he said. Then, after a moment he added, “And bring him home.”

Cameron took a deep breath after his uncle pulled away. “I promise,” he said.

After that, it was a hasty stop in his own chambers, where he swiftly packed his bags. His uniform, which denoted him as a captain in the Caldoran army, a few changes of clothes that would be acceptable in court, his journal and writing materials, some coin, and a few personal items. Lastly, he belted on his sword. Everything else he’d need was already with his saddlebags, or would be got from the kitchen.

He was just about to blow out the candles when he spied the scald ball out of the corner of his eye. He’d tossed it on the bed when he’d come upstairs this afternoon. At some point it had rolled off the bed and onto the floor. On a whim, Cameron picked it up as he left.

He stopped at Mistress Janet’s house on his way to the stables. The wagon had been delivered, and he could see Janet busily directing several of the village men, two of them Cameron’s soldiers, on the placement of materials within. Cameron, who’d put on a cloak to keep from being noticed, slipped easily around to the rear of the house and through the back door.

As he’d hoped, he found Cassandra and Valencia in the kitchen. Valencia’s brother was asleep in the corner nearest the fire. Though their father still lived, the man was undoubtedly drunk in some other village somewhere, and would wander back home to a very nasty surprise. Cameron couldn’t say he was sorry.

Cassie looked up when the door opened and gasped when she saw him. Her friend was not long in following, and Cameron put a finger to his lips to signal they keep quiet.

“Mother told us you were leaving,” Cassie said, eyes apprehensive.

“I am.”

“The marquis wishes you to warn the king,” Valencia added.

“That’s right.”

“And why can’t someone else do it?” the younger girl asked with a scowl.

“Valencia,” Cassie scolded. She glanced back at Cameron. “Cameron was a _nobleman_ a long time before he was our friend,” she said, making the word ‘nobleman’ sound like an unwanted nuisance. “We can’t expect to keep him to ourselves forever.” She gave him a knowing grin which he returned.

“I brought you something,” he told them both. He retrieved the scald ball and handed it to Valencia. “I expect you all to be able to beat me for real when I get back,” he said.

Valencia gave a sly grin. “Isn’t this a luxury?” she teased.

“By no means,” he said with a grin of his own. “It’s just a leather ball. Anyway, I expect you can stash it somewhere without too much trouble.” He sighed. “Tell the others I said goodbye. And take care of Nicholas for me.”

The girls exchanged a sagacious look as only women could, and both smiled. “We will,” Cassie assured him. “And be safe, Cameron.” Then she blushed slightly. “I mean, Lord Mitchell.”

Valencia observed her friend’s amendment with a pained expression, and looked back at Cameron. “Nothing’s going to be the same anymore, is it?”

Cameron’s thoughts drifted to the royal court, of his role there and all that would be expected of him. His uncle had advised him it was a place where casual games of scald outside the village and close friendships with commoners were looked down upon. Cameron had never found the idea of such a place very appealing. He shook his head. “No, it won’t.” A quiet sadness settled on him as he took his leave of the girls.

His last goodbye was to his squire, who had his horse ready for him when he arrived in the stables. “You’ll do fine, Nicholas,” Cameron said, swinging up into the saddle.

“I really believe that, sir,” the younger man said. He seemed calmer now. Of course, Cameron reflected, that could just be evidence of numb exhaustion. “You’ve been a good teacher,” Nicholas added. “Thank you. And best of luck, sir.”

Cameron nodded his thanks and took the reins. “Coast clear?” he asked.

“You should be fine. And I think the villagers will be too, after you’re gone. They’ll look to the marquis, even if he is ill.”

“Ill or hale, they still love him dearly,” Cameron agreed. “Heed Mistress Janet in matters of his health until I get back,” he advised. “I’ll meet you in Madrona, hopefully within a fortnight.”

“We’ll wait for you there.”

“Goodbye, Nicholas.”

A mist hung over western Sheppard as Cameron passed through the village gates, heading east. He spurred his horse into a hard gallop, riding the crest of a wave of war that would bring him face to face with whatever his future held in store.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: - According to Wikipedia: "The word "Colorado" was selected by Congress in 1861 as the name for the Colorado Territory that is today a state. The name has its origins in the Spanish language, where it is directly translated as "colored red". It is named after the Colorado River (Río Colorado), itself named after its reddish-brown color."
> 
> Colorado Springs = Red-colored water, ergo, Redwater Castle. Isn't geekiness grand? ;-)

**PART TWO – HENRY**

With a crack like thunder, the great oak doors that divided the banquet hall from the throne room of Redwater Castle burst open. The king had learned long ago how to storm through them in such a way that the reverberations seemed to shudder down to the stone foundations. This sort of display was very useful when the intimidation of annoying subjects was called for, or if the king was just in the mood to hit something.

Some days it was useful for both.

“Barrett!!” Like the echo of the doors, the king’s shout filled the vast hall, then filled it again a few times over.

The king’s captain of intelligence, Sir Malcolm Barrett, had an uncanny knack for maintaining his composure, even in the face of his king’s ire. He’d been in Henry’s service long enough that he undoubtedly had learned how to tell the theatrics from anything truly worthy of concern. Or perhaps he merely knew that, in this case, he was not the object of the king’s displeasure. That honor fell to the man standing beside Sir Malcolm, one Lord Harold Maybourne.

“Your Majesty.” Sir Malcolm made a brief but respectful bow.

“Is it true?” Henry demanded, stopping just short of the other two men and fixing Lord Maybourne with a venomous glare.

Maybourne’s bow was much slower than Barrett’s, so much so that it almost came off as a casual gesture, certainly lacking in true deference. “Your Majesty, I was merely–”

“I do not believe I was asking you,” the king snapped.

Taking his cue, Sir Malcolm stepped forward. “Lord Maybourne was breaking fast with the leaders of the Sodan tribe, sire,” he said neutrally. “Understanding his Majesty’s intentions to meet with the Sodan this very hour, I respectfully requested Lord Maybourne conclude the meal prematurely.”

King Henry wanted very badly to swear, but shoved the urge back. He had not, in fact, intended to meet with the Sodan warriors until well after midday. He wanted to give himself a window of time, however small, in which to familiarize himself as best he could with these strange men. However, allowing them to dally over a casual meal with Harold Maybourne was a not something he could allow to go unchecked. Sir Malcolm, with his quick wits, had spotted the potential trouble in the situation and taken action, sending the king’s secretary, a small, busy man named Walter, ahead to forewarn the king that he was going to have to risk being a little under-prepared for the audience with the Sodan.

The real question was how many of these nuances Lord Harold was familiar with and how many he wasn’t. He was not supposed to know the king hadn’t intended a morning audience, but that meant very little in the underworld of the Caldoran court. Henry couldn’t shake the detestable thought that Barrett’s actions had played directly into Maybourne’s wishes, which were to put the king off-balance or to give the Sodan the impression of a weakly-managed court.

“For the good of his country, Lord Maybourne would do well to leave sensitive diplomatic meetings to the care of his betters unless invited to participate!” Henry stormed. The pitch of his voice rose a bit with each word and his glare deepened.

“Your Majesty, I assure you, I acted only for the good of Caldora,” Maybourne entreated, with near-convincing sincerity. “These Sodan, we know nothing of them. By all appearances, they’re little better than common pirates, and I thought–”

“You thought, your lordship, and that is my problem. You thought you would decide for me? Perhaps you thought me incapable of judging for myself? Need I remind you, Lord Maybourne, that you were among those who supported my appointment to the throne?”

With each successive question, Maybourne’s lips pressed more and more tightly together until his face became an impassive mask. Only a small dart of his hard eyes betrayed his sullenness. “Of course not, my lord,” he said stiffly. “My apologies.”

“Accepted. Now get out of my sight while I work to restore whatever damage you may have done.”

“My liege.” Maybourne’s parting bow was all formality, and he turned heel and left the hall. A guard opened the door for him. With Lord Maybourne gone, Henry ordered the guard out as well, leaving him alone with Sir Malcolm.

Henry let out a long, slow sigh, and seemed to deflate, exchanging his hard, glowering features for those far more careworn.

“I’m sorry, sire,” Sir Malcolm said. “I did what I thought was best; I hope you are not dissatisfied with my choice.”

“There is little with which to be satisfied, Malcolm,” King Henry said. He turned, and began to walk ponderously back the way he had come, toward his chilly throne room. “But no, I am not upset with you. You made the best choice you could. That man has been a splinter in my backside since I took the crown.” He chuckled at the scandalized look that passed quickly over Malcolm’s placid features. “Never mind him, though. The damage has been done. Tell me what you can of these Sodan, and then show them in.”

“Yes, sire.” Malcolm became all business. “There are seven Sodan in the delegation, led by a man named Haikon.”

“That great, dark, narrow-eyed fellow?”

“Yes. According to Haikon, the Sodan were once Jaffa slaves who rebelled against their Goa’uld overlords long before the rest of their brethren.”

“Then why–?”

“Why are they not with the free Jaffa?” Malcolm finished. “I thought that a question best not put forth by the king’s official busybody, my lord.” Here, the king was compelled to chuckle again. Unperturbed, Malcolm continued, “I have a sense, though, that Haikon will be eager to tell you. His impatience is mounting.”

The king paused before a long, narrow table that ran the length of the throne room’s eastern side. It was draped in a pale blue cloth and several ornamental boxes were set upon it. He studied one of them for a moment, a square, cast-iron creation trimmed in silver and bearing the royal crest. He turned his gaze back to his knight and asked, “What do you think of him, Malcolm? Is he little better than a savage?”

Sir Malcolm opened his mouth, hesitant, “My lord, there is little more that I have been able to determine–”

“I’m not asking you as a captain of intelligence, Malcolm, I’m asking you as a man. What do you think of him?”

After another uncertain moment, Malcolm said slowly, “It is clear that Haikon – that all the men with him – are men of great brutality, sire. But savage is not a word I would choose. He carries himself like a king. I sense nothing duplicitous about him.”

“You respect him?”

“I do.”

“In this room, that would be a refreshing change. Very well, send them in.”

“Yes, my lord.” Malcolm bowed his exit and hastened back the way they’d come.

Henry turned his attention back on the iron case before him, lifting open the heavy lid. On a bed of blue velvet lay a studded, iron circlet, inlaid with nine sapphires, dark and evenly placed around the circle.

The king of Caldora had two crowns, one for time of peace and one for time of war. The peacetime crown was made of gold. It was higher and heavier, and its jewels sparkled large and bright. Much as Henry hated donning the garish thing, it would not bring an ache to his heart as did wearing the iron crown.

By the time he heard the sounds of Malcolm leading the Sodan warriors through the next room toward him, he was already seated on the simple throne. Typically, he would not have received such a party alone, but the situation was far from typical, and he greatly desired privacy for this meeting.

Sir Malcolm opened the oak doors, which shuddered. “Your Majesty, presenting the High Lord Haikon, leader of the Sodan tribe of the Jaffa nation,” he announced. Then he stepped unobtrusively aside.

Henry had already met Lord Haikon once, less formally, and thus already knew Malcolm’s assessment of the man to be true. The Sodan leader carried himself with such pride that Henry had to fight the impulse to rise to his feet.

The Sodan were outfitted as warriors, all in stiff, highly-polished leather armor, but each also wore a heavy cloak of a royal hue: deep burgundies, forest greens, and rich browns. Haikon’s cloak was a deep shade of plum and was clasped at his shoulder with a large copper broach shaped to present the sun.

Haikon approached the throne with all the presence of an emperor, then dropped swiftly to one knee in a gesture of respect. He crossed his arm over his chest and bent his neck, his men following suit. Then, as quickly as he’d stooped, he was rising to his feet again. “Greetings to Henry, King of Caldora.”

“Greetings, Lord Haikon,” Henry replied. “Sir Malcolm tells me your errand seems most pressing. Let us not waste time with pleasantries.”

“I agree,” Haikon replied, with an incline of his head that was almost relief. “Your country is at war with the Goa’uld.”

There was nothing in the statement that could be mistaken for doubt. Haikon was not probing for confirmation of rumors. He _knew_. Impressive, considering that according to Henry’s best information, the invasion was not eight days old. “It is not a war of our choosing, I assure you,” Henry replied, selecting his words with care, “but what is your interest in the matter?”

Haikon continued his presentation with slow, solemn words. “It is no secret that Caldora is little better than a wounded beast in her current condition, Lord King,” he said. Henry couldn’t help but bristle a little at this comparison. “I mean no disrespect to your people, of course,” the Sodan leader continued. “The Goa’uld are cowards and scavengers. They deliberately prey on the weak, and your country’s losses to the Ori are no secret.”

Henry held his peace. He trusted Haikon hadn’t come merely to spell out Caldora’s troubles. He could only hope the other man was getting to his point, and swiftly. However, he would not voice his question a second time.

Haikon met his gaze and seemed to sense that Henry’s patience was not to be tested. “You have a country in need of a fighting arm, Lord King,” he said. He paused, studying the king’s face hard, then added most deliberately, “And I have a nation of warriors in need of a country. Perhaps we can be of use to one another.”

Henry drew in a sharp breath. “What are you proposing?” he asked.

“The Sodan are prepared to help you fight the Goa’uld with our full strength,” Haikon declared. “In exchange we ask for a relinquishment of Caldoran lands, that we may begin a sovereign nation of our own.”

The astonishment of the king rivaled anything he’d felt since the day the assembly of peers had announced him as their choice to ascend the throne. True, he’d suspected Sodan’s purpose here might have been to offer their services as a hired fighting force, and true, he’d been hard-pressed to imagine what Caldora could possibly have to offer in exchange, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined the gall of this man, standing before him and asking that he carve his country apart.

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “So instead of sacrificing Caldora to the Goa’uld, you would have me sacrifice it to you?” he asked. “How is that a gainful solution for my people?”

“War defines boundaries, Lord King. So it has always been. The Goa’uld must be stopped. The Sodan have seen for ourselves an opportunity. Our opportunity is your compromise. I will make no apologies for that. My people are as deserving of good lands as yours.”

“The Jaffa have a country,” Henry pointed out levelly, raising an eyebrow.

Here he finally seemed to hit a nerve. Haikon’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Henry leaned back in his throne and continued to gaze at the other man with a speculative eye. “You’ll forgive me, Lord Haikon, but if I am to give credence to your bold assertions, I feel I have the right to know why you feel you do not belong with your own people.”

Haikon’s eyes flashed dangerously. After a long, reluctant pause, he spoke. “The Jaffa and the Sodan are no longer the same people. Long ago, decades before the recent Jaffa rebellion flowered with success, the Sodan arose against the Goa’uld, the first to actively lash out against our oppressors. We were few, but we broke away from that country, claiming our freedom before our brethren even dared to believe it possible.

“When the second rebellion began, gladly did the Sodan take part with the Jaffa in the fight. By this time, the vision of the Sodan had become legendary, and our presence was a great inspiration to the Jaffa armies. In war, we were the greatest of allies.”

“But?” King Henry prompted.

“But when the war was over, the ensuing peace was entrusted to men whose ambition meant they could not stomach being eclipsed by legends.” A wry smile touched Haikon’s lips. “They’d learned to love the taste of power, something their former masters taught them well. Suddenly, we were not so welcome.”

Henry still felt skeptical, but he was also thinking of his encounter with Lord Maybourne, of his taunting words reminding Maybourne that he had helped put Henry on the throne. The assembly of peers had chosen the House of Landry for its obscurity. They had believed Henry a simple man who would be easily swayed by the whims of the country’s leadership. They had wanted a puppet, and Henry would neither forgive them nor allow them to forget how mistaken they had been.

He turned his thoughts to Lord Haikon’s proposal, trying to push beyond the audacity of it long enough to give it at least a moment’s possible consideration. He did not ask what particular bit of Caldoran countryside the Sodan had their eye on. If he were to consider their offer, he would prefer dictating that part of negotiations himself, and he hoped Haikon had the sense to realize that.

Henry also highly doubted Haikon had cohabitation in mind, meaning that if lands were relinquished, the displacement of the Caldorans who lived there was a given. This thought caused the king much sadness, so much that he almost washed his hands of the idea then and there. On the other hand, the Caldoran population was decimated. Far too many fields lay fallow as it was, for lack of hands to till them.

On top of that was the issue of which lord or lords would have to be informed that their family’s ancient lands would no longer be theirs to exploit. This thought almost caused the king to smile, but the smugness was momentary. Such a scenario would prove to be an annoyance far longer than it would a pleasure.

Still, the longer he considered it, the longer the king wondered if the solution might be viable after all. It would not be easy and he would not enjoy it, but Haikon had not been wrong about the situation nor the nature and need of compromise.

“Your story rings of truth, Lord Haikon,” Henry finally said, “But this is too great a decision for me to make alone. I must confer with my lords on your proposal. I will give you an answer in three days’ time.”

Haikon inclined his head again. “I thank you, Lord King. Extend to your lords my assurances that the strength of the Sodan is enough to affect the tide of this war. An accord between our peoples would not prove in vain. And were you to extend us this honor, we would be strong allies for many years to come. I assure you, you would not regret your choice.”

“I will convey your sentiments,” Henry said, rising to his feet.

“We take our leave.”

While Sir Malcolm, who had observed the entire conference from his place beside the door, showed the Sodan out, the king waited alone once more. He put the iron crown back to rest in its case by the window, then stared out the window into the muddy plains that surrounded Redwater Castle. The warm spring sunshine lit the patches of pale green that had begun to peep among the hillocks.

Sir Malcolm returned in his particularly quiet way. Henry did not turn around. “That was unexpected,” he said.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Malcolm agreed. More hesitantly, he added, “Would you really consider doing this?”

“Under most circumstances? No, I wouldn’t. But if my only choice is to cut off a limb that the body might survive…” Henry sighed. “I fear, Malcolm, that we may not have a choice, as Lord Haikon is well aware. I will argue it to the assembly first thing in the morning.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and Henry turned around to see that Malcolm was staring at him with a reluctant expression. “You don’t agree?” he prompted, somewhat irritably.

“On no particular point, sire. Our circumstances are indeed desperate.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to choke on your own tongue? Come out with it, man!”

“Sire… the Atalan matter,” Malcolm confessed.

Henry gave a dry smile. “Queen Elizabeth sent us one courteous warning, Malcolm. I highly doubt it was an unspoken promise of armed forces.”

“It did open the door that we might ask for aid.”

Henry fell pensive. “I know,” he confessed. He knew all too well. “When Lord Davis returns with Carolyn I will inform her of my intentions, as well as Lord Hayes, and–” he paused, “–and young Lord Mitchell. Only afterward will I break the news to the esteemed assembly.”

“Lord Mitchell, my lord?” Malcolm asked. His uncertainty was plain.

“The boy seems both honest and impressionable, Malcolm. I have use for both those traits, and if I can gain his trust I think I’ll go a long way to somehow regaining Geoffrey of Sheppard’s favor. You know how deeply they’re tied to all of this, even if they don’t yet. I think it would be highly prudent to forewarn them before I begin a political hailstorm.” He reached up, rubbing both of his temples with one hand. “Already the mere thought of it makes my head ache.”

“Informing the assembly, my lord, or informing the princess?”

Henry raised his eyebrows at the knight. Sir Malcolm always knew those rare occasions when his frankness had carried him just a step too far. “Forgive me, sire.”

For good measure, Henry held his disapproving expression one moment longer before yielding to the apology. “No harm done, son,” he said. “But I was referring to the assembly. I find it difficult to decide which announcement will be the least popular, my informing them that the Sodan want a piece of Caldora or that I’m ingratiating myself to the girl-child queen of our ancient, most high-handed neighbors.” He paused. “Care to place a wager?”

A small smile touched the knight’s lips. “It is not honorable for one in my position to gamble, my lord.”

“Poppycock,” said the king, chuckling. “What you mean is you’re too chicken to place a wager against me.”

“In all honesty, sire, I could not decide on a preferment in this case.” Malcolm sobered. “These sorts of upheavals could lose you the crown.”

“We are a nation of upheaval, Malcolm. As for the crown, I never sought it, but I will do my best to be true to it and to myself as long it is mine. If that makes me unpopular, then so be it, but perhaps when all of this is over, there will still be a Caldora.”

Malcolm took a moment to consider these words, then gave a solemn nod. “I trust that will be so, sire. It is my honor to help you in whatever means I am able toward that end.”

“You’re a good man, Malcolm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are recent reports from the front that I still have to read. Please inform me the moment my daughter arrives.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”


	3. Beyond These Hills (3/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Carolyn is the character truly responsible for stirring up my interest in Caldora. Don't ask me why. She's not my super-favorite Stargate character or anything, but for some reason the mix of her canon personality and this particular set of circumstances set my mind all kinds of spinning. I suspect that's the reason this section is my personal favorite of the four installments.
> 
> Also, I named Carolyn's mother Aurelia at melyanna's suggestion. Her canon name was established as Kim in Family Ties, but try as I might, I just can't reconcile the name Kim to this time period. I have nothing against the name, it just conjures too many modern associations. And also Pink Power Rangers. *giggles* (no offense, Kim). Aurelia has the same meaning that Kim has in Vietnamese. So... for me it was an elegant compromise.
> 
> Enjoy!

**PART THREE – CAROLYN**

Only one copy of the Book of Origin remained in Caldora. It was part of the fledgling library that King Henry had patiently begun to rebuild. There it held a place of strange, grim honor; a symbol of Caldora’s great and costly mistake, and what the country must never be allowed to forget.

The darkest point of the history with the Ori had been the occupation of the capital. The soldiers who served the Ori had no interest in Caldoran culture. In fact, to allow any part of Caldoran identity to thrive would have been potentially disastrous. The paintings and tapestries that had once brightened the corridors of Redwater Castle, along with the better part of the libraries, had been destroyed. They had then been replaced with hollow counterparts of Ori inspiration, each one a harsh effigy to their unyielding gods.

It was with equal relish that the Caldorans had, in turn, destroyed these tokens of oppression, but nothing could bring back the treasures that had been lost. The once mighty nation, blessed with centuries’ worth of art and learning, now had precious little legacy beyond the memories of those that remained.

Though she had been quite young, Carolyn did remember the bonfires, though not fondly. They had not been a celebration of joy, but of relief. The cost in lives sacrificed to appease the Ori had been so high that Caldora would never again resemble its former self. Carolyn had thrown more copies than she could remember of the Ori’s precious holy book into the fire, trying, as her father had suggested, to throw away her fear and bitterness along with it, piece by piece.

The fires, the king firmly commanded, would be the closest the Caldoran people would come to seeking revenge. Any attempt at retaliation would surely fail, destroying the precious remnants of the nation as well. Caldora was a weak, wounded country, still trying to find her feet with no mother nearby to pick her up again.

Any fool could have guessed the Goa’uld would choose to take advantage of the situation.

Dusk had fallen when Carolyn, Princess of the House of Landry, arrived home. Or so she was supposed to think of it. As the gates closed behind her, she could not help but feel that home was a thing she’d misplaced, with no certainty of ever finding it again. Home had been in Landry, before her father’s appointment to the throne, before her brother’s death. Now there was only the endless trek, back and forth, between Landry and Redwater. There was no home, only a weary nation, a king and queen estranged, and the looming, unwanted burden of succession.

As expected, they were greeted in the courtyard by Walter, her father’s secretary. “Princess Carolyn, Lord Davis,” he said. “Welcome back.” He reached up to assist Carolyn from her horse. Once on the ground, she clung to her saddle for a moment, trying to keep from weaving on her feet. It had been a long, hard day’s ride. Ordinarily she made the journey in two days by coach but the urgency of the current situation had demanded greater speed.

“Thank you, Walter. Is my father expecting me?”

“At once, my lady,” Walter confirmed, looking apologetic. “He was informed of your approach as soon as you were spotted.”

Wearily, she nodded her understanding and handed her horse’s reins to the stableman. Pulling off her gloves, she began walking briskly through the courtyard toward the fortress’s large keep. It felt good to move her legs. It felt good to have arrived. She didn’t think the miles of the journey had ever felt so long.

Lord Davis accompanied her without speaking, keeping a polite distance just behind. No one bothered them as they made the familiar way toward her father’s chambers, for which she was relieved. The household was settling down for the night. By now, the lords were all probably tucked away in their various enclaves, debating and scheming the night away. She would not have to deal with their ingratiation until the morning.

“If you’ll just wait in the antechamber, Highness,” Lord Davis said when they arrived in the series of rooms her father used for his private life and private dealings. “I’ll inform him of our arrival.” He opened the door for her. She could see the welcome flicker of firelight beyond it.

“Thank you,” she said distractedly, stepping inside. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, closing her eyes and letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Pardon me, my lady–”

Carolyn gave a violent start, and a heavy gasp that was halfway to being a shout. She wheeled about to the left, towards the sound of the voice. There was a man standing there. He must have been standing uncannily still before, or she would have noticed him out of the corner of her eye. For a moment, she couldn’t think of anything to say, but could only stare at him dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Taking some deep breaths to try and calm her racing heart, Carolyn stepped away from the door, studying the stranger. He was young, perhaps twenty-five years of age. His hair was light brown, closely cropped, and he had light-colored eyes, though the firelight made it difficult to determine for certain. By his clothing she knew him to be a nobleman, and based upon his age and a bit of deduction, she could only guess him to be young Lord Mitchell. There were, after all, few young men of noble birth left in the country, and fewer still whom she had not already met.

“You did startle me, sir,” she said. “But my weariness has made me shortsighted. I did not observe you there when I came in.”

The young man was studying her intently now. “Forgive my boldness, my lady, but might I presume you to be Princess Carolyn?” he asked.

“I am.”

He nodded knowingly, and lapsed immediately after into a very respectful bow, if a rather nervous one. “Lord Cameron Mitchell of the House of Sheppard, your Highness. It is an honor to meet you.”

Carolyn returned the gesture with a simple bow of her head. Once upon a time she would have curtseyed deeply, for then this man had far outranked her. It was a strange thought. “Carolyn of Landry,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps you’re wondering about me,” he said. “I’ve never been to court before, and I’m sure you don’t–”

“I know who you are, Lord Mitchell.”

He faltered. “You do?”

She gave a small, ironic smile. “I would not be very much help to my father if I did not know the name of the heir of the House of Sheppard,” she said pointedly.

He closed his mouth. “Oh. Of course.”

“You were the one who first brought news of the attack,” she remarked.

Again, he seemed surprised. “How did you–?”

“Lord Davis was dispatched to bring me here almost as soon as you brought your news, Lord Mitchell. Had you not wondered at his absence?”

“To speak the truth, your Highness, I’ve mostly been left to myself the past few days. I have not met with the king since my first audience, and I would have no experience upon which to understand Lord Davis’s absence to be out of the ordinary.” He gave a tentative smile.

Suddenly, Carolyn felt very obtuse. Clearing her throat slightly, she remarked, “And do you wait on the king now, sir?”

“Yes, I expect he has reached a decision regarding my uncle’s petition.”

“Oh? What might that be?” Carolyn inquired.

He paused. “That is a family matter, my lady,” he said slowly, “and for my uncle’s sake one I would rather not disclose. Unless you were to command it, of course,” he added hastily.

“Of course not,” she said. Now she felt twice as embarrassed. “My apologies, I did not mean to seem intrusive.”

Behind them, the door opened. “Princess,” Lord Davis called softly from the corridor. “Your father is ready for you now.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Turning to Lord Mitchell, she gave another nod, and to her surprise, a small curtsey, just enough to not be demeaning. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Mitchell. I hope your audience goes favorably.”

He answered with the hint of a grin. “Likewise, your Highness.” She raised her eyebrows for a moment at his teasing but said nothing.

It was only a few short steps to the king’s study, her father’s true place of repose.  
The room was not unlike the antechamber she’d just departed, except that it housed the king’s preferred books and trophies and had private access to his sleeping chambers. Lord Davis opened the door for her and she stepped inside. She was unsurprised to see Sir Malcolm Barrett, one of her father’s closest confidants, rise to his feet as she came through the door. Her father sat across from him, in the other chair by the fire. “Good evening, your Highness,” Sir Malcolm greeted her. “How was your journey?”

“Tiring, Sir Malcolm, but I am gratified by the speed we made.”

“I am glad you have arrived safely.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Malcolm,” King Henry interrupted with a touch of his false, fond impatience. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to greet my daughter and have this out before today becomes tomorrow.”

Sir Malcolm glanced at Carolyn, his eyes twinkling with knowing amusement. “Of course, your Majesty.” He crossed to join Lord Davis at the door. “Good night.”

When the door was closed, Carolyn turned apprehensively toward her father. She knew something was not right. He hadn’t met her eye the entire time she’d been standing here. “What’s wrong?” she asked with a bluntness that was only reserved for these private moments between them.

He rose to his feet. “I think ‘what’s right’ would be a better question,” he confessed. He reached up and ran his hands through his iron gray hair and gave a heavy, burdened sigh. He took two steps to a small table nearby and leaned down over the bottle and goblets resting there. “Would you like some wine, Carolyn? You look exhausted.”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I’m having some. Perhaps it will help me sleep.” He grasped the bottle and poured enough for several swallows into one of the goblets.

“Father, what’s wrong?” she repeated firmly when he’d straightened. If he was stalling it meant he was nervous with respect specifically to her, and she’d always found this delaying tactic annoying.

He took a hearty sip of the wine, then stood there, staring into his glass with intent concentration. “The Goa’uld have already reached Dixon, Carolyn. I have reports that Harriman is already under siege.”

Carolyn took an involuntary step forward, her mouth falling open in quiet shock. “But–” she began, “how could they be moving so quickly?”

“For starters, the size of their army is such that they can apportion it without losing their strength in numbers.”

Carolyn’s mind was racing furiously. “The spring has been dry,” she murmured.

King Henry nodded. “And the winter was mild. With the exception of the border, the runoff won’t pose a problem for a march. The ground is hard. More than that, though,” he added sadly, “we have no one to repel them. Which is why they’ve come, of course.”

“The Tok’ra–” Carolyn began.

“Will probably help us, but they’re too far away to be of any immediate aid,” the king finished, shaking his head.

“Perhaps the Jaffa–” she tried again, but the king merely deepened his gesture.

“They won’t make the first move,” he said with certainty. “Not yet. Not even against the Goa’uld.”

“What are you going to do then?” she asked, sensing he was not looking for suggestions, but for an opening.

The king stared at his daughter with a hesitation he never would have dared display for his lords. He opened his mouth, made a start as though to speak, then closed it, shaking his head again. “Maybe this will be easier if I show you instead of telling you,” he said at last.

He stepped away from the fire and crossed the room to his desk. There, he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, chose one of the smallest, and used it to unlock the bottommost, deepest drawer. After fumbling about inside for a moment, his hand reemerged, now clutching a sheaf of papers. Then he walked back across the room, and handed the topmost paper to Carolyn, at which point she observed them all to be letters. Mystified, she accepted it, then stepped close to the fire the better to read it.

It was short and direct, written in a flawless feminine hand, and made Carolyn stop breathing.

> _My honored lord,_
> 
> _I have lately learned information vital to us both. The Goa’uld have amassed an army in the far eastern reaches of their territories, capable of attacking either of our realms. Whether they will choose to cross the mountains or the river I cannot know, but I do know that this movement is dangerous to your people and mine. I can only pray that this warning reaches you in time to do some good._
> 
> _Elizabeth Weir_

Carolyn stared at the letter dumbly for three seconds before flipping it over and studying the remnants of the broken seal at the bottom. It was dark blue and she saw an equine head and what could only be part of a wing. The flying horse. The crest of Atalan.

Trembling, she slowly raised her eyes to her father’s, disbelief pouring off her. “A letter from Queen Elizabeth?” she stammered. Blinking rapidly, her mind leapt from disbelief to accusation. “She writes with familiarity, Father,” she pointed out, her eyes hard.

His reply was to hold up the remainder of the letters. The firelight flickered on three identical seals. “Just before her ascension, I sent Princess Elizabeth a letter conveying my congratulations.”

“Why?” The single, scathing word slipped from Carolyn’s tongue almost of its own accord.

“Why not?” Her father returned sharply. Carolyn opened her mouth, but her father pressed. “Tell me that, Carolyn. Why should I not have?”

She wanted desperately to blurt out the obvious, that Elizabeth was _Atalanian_. But how could she explain to her father, who held a minority view on the matter, the fierce disdain she and so many other Caldorans harbored for their northerly neighbors?

Henry of Landry had traveled much as a young man. He had not been born the heir of his family, and like many younger sons, had felt compelled to make his mark on the world through other means. He joined the Caldoran army, and as an officer and a nobleman had served with the retinues of various Caldoran ambassadors. In those travels he had met Carolyn’s mother, the Lady Aurelia, in a southern country called Andari. He had also somehow never learned to share his countrymen’s distaste for Atalan.

It had taken Carolyn a very long time to recognize his indifference. It was an opinion he hid well, and for good reason. She was quite certain that, had the assembly of peers had any inkling that he was an Atalan sympathizer (for in their minds, neutrality was no different), they certainly would not have chosen him for the throne, his spotless war record notwithstanding.

“Atalan does not respect us, Father,” Carolyn began bitterly. “They look down at us for every reason they can think of! That we’re unlearned, that we’re weak. They boast of their resistance of the Ori, but I would dearly love to see how they would have fared without the Talas range for a fence!” Carolyn brandished a finger in a general northerly direction. “And it’s easy to claim great knowledge when your country is coddled by the Asgard, who have forsaken all other countries! It’s easy to retain wealth when the high seas bring fresh trade and invention year by year!”

She said all this with little pause, feeling nearly on the verge of angry tears. She drew in a steadying breath. “We don’t need their help,” she said, saying each word with deliberate, cutting emphasis. “We would sacrifice what few shreds of pride we have left.”

The king had remained respectfully silent during the entirety of this tirade, and now he studied her with a sad, sympathetic expression. “Then those shreds would become our burial shroud,” he said. “We do need their help, Carolyn, and I intend to seek it. For that I will need your public support. I know your feelings about Atalan; that’s why I’m having this conversation with you now.”

Comprehension dawned and she looked away. “You ask much of me.”

“I always do. Because you’re strong. And because I know that in your heart, you will do what is best for your people, no matter what it costs you. You’re too much like me that way,” he added quietly, a vague note of regret tingeing his words.

Carolyn swallowed. “When will you be announcing your intentions?” she asked stiffly.

“Tomorrow. I wish I could give you more time to adjust, but we cannot afford to wait that long. I’ve already chosen the members of my delegation to Atlantis.”

“Who?”

“Lord Davis, Sir Reynolds, and Walter, with two of the royal guard to escort them. If they make speed they can outstrip the Goa’uld on their way to the mountains.”

“Then I take it Lord Davis already knows of this?” Carolyn asked.

“Yes, as do Lord Hayes and Sir Malcolm. And now you. Before the night is out I will inform young Lord Mitchell, but he will be the last before the assembly.”

Some of Carolyn’s resentment faded into curiosity. “Lord Mitchell?” she repeated. “I’ve just met him in the antechamber. He believes he’s meeting you in regard to a family petition. Why would you inform him?”

Her father made a very strange face. “Because there’s more to this story than mere diplomatic correspondence between two countries who supposedly don’t correspond,” he said wryly. “As you say, Lord Mitchell is here on a family matter. The marquis has requested that I pardon John of Sheppard and rescind his exile.”

Carolyn’s breath caught slightly. “After all this time?” she asked.

“Geoffrey of Sheppard is on the verge of death and we are once again at war. He recognizes the political climate is such that an act of that kind would not now endanger my control of the assembly.”

“If he knew the full scope of your intentions, perhaps he would not be so confident,” Carolyn could not help but mutter.

The king gave her a brief, reproving look before he continued. “You know that I never wished to banish young Sheppard. It was biased and unjust – anyone with five wits knew as much, but had I not, the country would have come apart at the seams. Now, though,” he said, taking a step closer to her, “I have cause to go forward with the pardon. Good, solid reasoning that goes beyond my personal feelings on the matter, or even his father’s.”

Carolyn gave a slight frown. “What reasons?”

“Because John of Sheppard swore fealty to Elizabeth and has been serving as a knight of Atalan.”

Carolyn felt her stomach flip over. “Surely you jest,” she said.

He shook his head, holding up the remaining three letters.

“How long?”

“These past six months, since early autumn. As I understand it, the whole thing was something of a giant misunderstanding, a stumble made by Queen Elizabeth in literally the first moments of her reign. Perhaps she is not so condescendingly wise as you seem to think, Carolyn,” he explained, his eyes twinkling lightly.

“John of Sheppard is a knight of Atalan?” Carolyn asked, unable yet to move beyond this fact. She was still dumbfounded. Every feeling revolted. She was at war inside.

The events surrounding John of Sheppard’s exile from Caldora four years ago had remained a point of contention in the court long after his departure. While murder was certainly a just cause for such a punishment, accidents were not. Carolyn was one of Lord John’s staunchest defenders, for she was personally acquainted with Viscountess Makepeace, and that lady’s trembling testimony was all the proof Carolyn needed of Lord John’s innocence. That, and the words of other friends in the court, who said that the evil bruises the viscountess had perpetually concealed on her body should have earned her husband a public execution long before his death at the hands of Lord John.

But the assembly of peers had no interest in the testimony of a frightened woman, nor indeed in the testimony of Lord John himself at the time. King Henry had banished him and since that time, Geoffrey of Sheppard had never attended court. While never formally opposing the king, his lack of support had been felt keenly, on a personal level as well as political. Geoffrey of Sheppard and Henry of Landry had once been good friends, and the marquis considered Henry’s complicity not merely political cowardice, but a betrayal of friendship as well.

In Carolyn’s mind, John of Sheppard was the elusive paragon of men. He had proven himself righteous, and she remembered from her childhood that he was equally as kind and more than equally handsome. Secretly, Carolyn had always longed for him to return, because whomever she married was to become the next King of Caldora, and it would be a fitting response to the assembly to have the man they had cast aside made their king. The most precious commodity at Carolyn’s disposal was the power to choose the next monarch. Despite the rumors that persisted every time she rejected another suitor, Carolyn’s staid maidenhood was not borne of a thirst for a sovereign claim to the crown. She had no objections to marrying, but she would marry a beggar before she chose one of the greedy, ambitious, selfish ingrates who had thus far petitioned for her hand.

As for love…

There was a twinge of mild regret that lingered whenever she thought the word, but Carolyn always let it fade. No matter her personal feelings for a man, she would put neither a weakling nor a tyrant on the throne. She had long ago decided she was willing to do without love. But if it was possible…

Once again John Sheppard’s easy smile came to mind, and she recalled how attentive and pleasant he’d been, asking her to dance once, long ago at her thirteenth birthday feast. An alliance with the House of Sheppard would strengthen support of her father’s line, and he was of a character to suit Carolyn’s personal desires.

But now he was a knight of Atalan. The thought tumbled over and over again in her mind. It was strange, for it somehow managed to simultaneously make John of Sheppard shine less brightly in her imagination, yet make Atalan seem marginally less of an evil.

Her father’s voice forced her attention back to the present. “Strange as it seems, it is true,” he said. “It’s certainly a tale I’m eager to hear more of.”

Suddenly, Carolyn exhaustion became overwhelming. The hard day’s ride, followed by such tumultuous news, combined and descended on her with full force. Henry must have perceived the change, for his eyes softened from king to father. “I’ll not keep you up any longer. I know you’re very tired.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, relieved. All she wanted right now was sleep, a few hours’ reprieve from what felt like the weight of the world. “And you know you can count on me to support you… not that my support means all that much to the lords.”

“It matters to the ones with marriageable sons,” the king observed. Though he wasn’t joking, Carolyn made a face that caused him to chuckle. As his laugh died, he studied her thoughtfully. “The Goa’uld are not the Ori, Carolyn,” he said. “With the right alliances and a swift reaction we can win this war. There is not yet cause for despair.”

For the first time since she’d come, Carolyn gave a true smile, if a somewhat tentative one. It was a beautiful thing, hope. Once again she marveled at the fortuitous twist of fate that had put her father on the throne of Caldora just when the country needed his wisdom most. He was one of the best men she knew, and undeserving of the price he’d had to pay.

Carolyn stepped forward and embraced him, relaxing into his arms as though she were a little girl. No matter how hard it was to be the princess and heir to the throne, she would always find it in her to be strong enough, because no matter how strong she needed to be, her father always needed to be stronger.

After a moment, King Henry pulled away from his daughter, a fond smile lingering on his face. “How is your mother?” he asked softly.

With a pang, Carolyn put on a brave face. “She is in good in body, but she still suffers in spirit,” she confessed sadly. “She fears for you. She longs for William, and she longs for her homeland.”

Henry’s face fell for a moment in disappointment, but he quickly assumed a stoic expression to match his daughter’s and gave a slow nod. “All the more reason for me to act as quickly as possible,” he said. “Perhaps when peace is restored, I may restore my family as well.”

He looked down and pressed the three remaining Atalan letters into Carolyn’s hand. “Take these with you. You must be very careful to keep them secret, and promise to return them to me tomorrow, but I want you to read them. I think you’ll find that their manner is not lacking in respect. Perhaps they will ease your burden concerning Atalan.” With that, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Carolyn.”

She made sure the letters were completely concealed within the deep pocket of her riding dress before venturing out into the corridor and heading toward her quarters. Despite her exhaustion, she resolved to read them this very night, for Carolyn of Landry would be Queen of Caldora someday, and she would not have it said of her that she was unwilling to be proven wrong.


	4. Beyond These Hills (4/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, that's it, folks! Thanks for reading and for all your reviews (and in some cases, last-minute betas) ;-) I hope you enjoyed. And as always, thanks to the Axis of Evil for their deliciously addicting sandbox.

**PART FOUR – JANET**

Fifteen years ago, on the very same day Janet had lost her husband, she gained a child. It had been the strangest, most tragic, and most joyful day of her life. The couriers had arrived with news that her husband, Thomas, was among those newly killed in the Ori war, fighting on the front lines so very far from home.

They brought word that Madeleine’s husband was also dead, and the shock sent the young woman into an early labor that she did not survive. Suddenly, there was a beautiful baby girl in need of a family, and a lonely widow in need of one too. Janet had named the infant Cassandra, and thus her peculiar little family had been born.

Home had always been where they had each other, which had been many places over the years. Cassandra had been born in Fraiser, in the province of Dixon. It was the same village where Janet had been born, and it had been her home for the entirety of her early life. Not long after Cassandra’s birth, however, drought and an ever-dwindling population had forced the residents of Fraiser to give it up forever. Janet had never returned, but Lord Cameron had ridden through it once in his travels, and said there was little there anymore but the crumbling remains of cottages and the dried-up old well. Every now and then Janet thought on his words and felt a sadness, but she did not allow herself to dwell on it for very long.

Throughout Cassandra’s childhood, mother and daughter had wandered from village to town to city throughout Caldora. Sometimes work came easy, sometimes hard. While there was always need for a good midwife, so too was there usually a long-established predecessor for Janet to contend with. She had the best luck in the larger cities, and there began to learn new things about medicine she hadn’t known before, things that had once been the expertise of Caldora’s physicians, before they’d all gone to war.

Janet had studied midwifery from her childhood, and at that time the lines had been more clearly drawn. The birthing of babies was the province of women, and therefore the role of midwife was the right and duty of a woman. All other matters of health, though, were typically referred to male physicians. But just as thousands of Caldoran widows now followed behind plows in the hot sun, or tended the herds on the hillsides, the midwives of Caldora had learned to be doctors.

Eventually Janet’s wanderings brought her to the capital of Sheppard, where within a week of arriving, she was called upon to deliver the baby of one of Lord Geoffrey’s court. The delivery was grueling but successful, and Janet’s deportment throughout the incident brought her to the favorable attention of Lord Geoffrey’s wife. Lady Isabelle took a liking to both Janet and Cassandra, and called upon Janet often, seeking advice on many matters of the family’s health. A deep friendship developed between the ladies, and Janet knew at last she’d found a place in the world that would assure she and her daughter would always have provision.

From that time, the Marquis of Sheppard had been Janet’s steady patron, and she had accompanied him and his family wherever he had gone. Even after the death of Lady Isabelle three years before, an event which still weighed with great sadness on Janet’s heart, Janet had gone with Lord Geoffrey, Lord Cameron, and the rest of the family to Briar Bank. Now she had followed him to Madrona, in flight from the Goa’uld, and here had found a whole new scope for her talent.

Madrona was the second-largest and northernmost city in Sheppard. It was set on a very large hill at the foot of the mountains. It had an excellent water supply and the herd masters brought their flocks in with enough regularity that the city was able to thrive, despite its remote location. It was this remoteness that now made it the haven of the people of Sheppard. It was not just the people of Briar Bank that had fled here.

One morning just over two weeks after their arrival in Madrona, Janet and Cassandra were leaving the room they shared in the governor’s house when the sentinel’s warning bell began ringing. It was not the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last, but each time it set Janet’s pulse racing with fear. In all likelihood, the warning bell signaled that another group of refugees had been spotted, but there was always a chance that the Goa’uld had decided Madrona was worth their effort after all.

Janet hurried out into the city, Cassandra close behind her.

“Mistress Janet!” Unsurprisingly, the first familiar face they encountered as they neared the refugee camp was Valencia, with her little brother Ramus, as always, close on her heels. Since arriving in Madrona the young girl had done a very good job taking care of the boy, and was always one of the readiest in helping Janet with the refugees. “Do you know what it is?” she asked as she reached Janet’s side. “Is it the Goa’uld?”

“I don’t know yet. Go find Analise, Valencia. Tell her to get what food she can together and meet me at the camp.”

“People don’t have much left. I don’t know–”

“I know that, that’s why I asked Analise to help me this time. She lives in Madrona. People here are more likely to help if she asks them instead of one of us.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Beckoning to her brother, the young girl headed off down the alley in the opposite direction.

Janet and Cassandra arrived at the refugee camp, a sprawling cluster of makeshift tents and lean-tos that had been set up near the central marketplace. Janet was relieved to spy Squire Nicholas arriving just as they did. As soon as he spotted them, he held up a hand in greeting and made his hasty way over.

“Only refugees,” were the first words out of his mouth, before Janet could even ask.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “From where?” she asked. “How many?”

“I don’t know where they’re from yet, but it looks to be about three dozen or so,” he said, looking around worriedly.

Janet looked around as well, sharing his concern. “Where in the world are we going to put them?” she pondered aloud.

“I think that’s going to have to be a question for the marquis and the governor to answer,” Nicholas said.

“This time Lord Geoffrey will just have to override the governor’s arguments,” Cassandra put in quietly. “Won’t he?”

“Let’s hope so,” Janet answered. The influx of refugees hadn’t been wholly welcomed by the every citizen of Madrona. Though many had opened their hearts and homes, many others had not, and the city’s governor had done little to encourage charity on the part of his less than philanthropic subjects. “In the meantime, these people are going to need food, water, and rest, as always. Cassie, go around and find some wood for the fire.” Janet nodded at the large, central fire that had become the heart of the camp. Keeping up a steady supply of kindling was already becoming a struggle. “And water. Get two large kettles if you can, this time.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Within an hour, the newest group of tired, frightened Caldorans were making their way through the city gates. They were from a village called Bulrode, about halfway between Madrona and the border of Maybourne, and they had barely escaped with their lives.

As she had been doing since her arrival, Janet gave them food, water, and comfort. With Cassandra’s help, she also tended sores, cuts, and scrapes, and provided beds for those ready to collapse with exhaustion. There were always a few who could barely stand, usually the elderly. The previous week, Janet had been required to set a broken leg. Fortunately, the injury had been less than a day old. The young lad had hobbled the rest of the way to the city with the help of his mother and sister. Janet was still more than a little bit amazed at this accomplishment, and had told the young man as much many times over, rewarded for her praise by his pleased and triumphant smile and his compliance as she set the bone for healing.

One of this group was a pregnant woman, and Janet knew with certainty as soon as she laid eyes on her that the babe was days away, if that. She watched the tired young mother all day long out of the corner of her eye, and told the equally young husband where and how to find her when the time came.

Janet was therefore unsurprised, two nights later, to be awoken some time around midnight by one of the governor’s servants informing her that a refugee was at the back door asking for the midwife.

“Have him bring his wife here,” Janet instructed. She cut short the servant’s protest with a good, hard glare. “I’ll not deliver a baby in the squalor of a refugee camp. Now do as I say.”

The mother, whose name was Lydia, was brought as ordered, and Janet put her in her own room, where she had all of her herbs and tools, and light enough to her satisfaction. Janet had examined Lydia on the first day and found her to be strong, not too small in her bones, and the baby was positioned correctly. She was confident in a quick and successful delivery.

But her expectations were not met. Indeed, the sun had long risen by the time Janet finally acknowledged that something was wrong.

“I don’t understand it,” said Cassandra, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her sleeve. She was exhausted and confounded. “The tightness is lessening, but she should have delivered long ago. Have you ever seen anything like it, Mother?”

Instinct and remembrance were pulling at Janet, leaving a cold pit in her stomach. It had been a long time since she had seen symptoms like these. Not since Cassie had been a very small child.

She placed a hand on Lydia’s forehead. The woman’s skin was hot to the touch. She also was breathing extremely fast, and for a long while had seemed utterly unaware of what was going on around her. Though her black eyes were wide open, she stared at nothing, and breathed as though demons pursued her, frantic and fevered. Janet reached down and put her palm flat to the woman’s chest. As she suspected, her heart had increased its beating to match the breathing. Janet closed her eyes for a moment, defeated. It was as she feared.

“We haven’t much time,” she told Cassie quietly. “We’ll need more water. And more linens. _Clean_ linens. And make sure you clean your hands thoroughly as well.”

“Mother?” Cassie’s face was pale, and she studied Janet with fearful eyes.

“Do as I say, Cassandra. And quickly.”

Leaving her daughter with the laboring mother, Janet stepped out of the room into the corridor. It was only a short walk to the kitchen, where Lydia’s husband sat nervously near the door, oblivious to the bustle of the household staff around him.

He spotted Janet and sprung up like a jack rabbit. “What is happening?” he asked. “Is she all right?”

She took him by the arm and steered him gently to the furthest corner of the room, aware of the narrowed, scrutinizing gazes that followed them. “Your wife has contracted the birthing fever,” Janet said. She did not have time to soften the situation for him. “I have seen it before. By this time her body is too weak to deliver the child before she dies.”

The husband gave a start. “Dies?” he repeated, and his mouth worked open and closed with silent horror. “But,” he faltered. “She was... surely you can–”

Janet shook her head. “I have no medicines to fight this. Believe me, I have tried before, and I will try again, but the prospect is grim. At present, my chief concern is for the child. One thing I do know is that the birthing fever strikes only the mother. The child is hardy, as long as we can get him out in time.”

The grief-stricken husband was trembling, but managed to close in on the meaning of Janet’s words. “You wish to cut into her?” he asked. “I have heard of such things but never believed...” His eyes narrowed. “You would throw away her life?” he asked in accusation.

Janet took him firmly by both arms and glared at him. “Listen to me. If you doubt my honor as a midwife, then feel free to take your concerns to the marquis. He will tell you how I learned this trade from my mother, who learned it from her mother before her. I know much of birthing, but I am a woman of limitations, and I acknowledge when a situation has gone beyond my control.”

Her heart softened at the stricken expression on his face, and she softened her words as well. “Look at me,” she said, forcing his eyes to focus on hers. “This is no one’s fault,” she said, saying each word with deliberation. “I do not believe I can save your wife, but if I act now, I may be able to save your child. If I do nothing, they will both die.”

She could see the moment when he surrendered. Something in his eyes died, and his shoulders slumped. “What can I do?” he asked.

Relieved, she took a deep breath. “I have a few additional preparations to make. You had better take this time to see your wife. Afterward, I need you to stay out here.”

She brought Lydia’s husband to her, where he sat stroking her hair and speaking to her softly while Janet stoked and stirred the fire to its highest and brightest. Janet made sure there was water in the kettle well on its way to boil, and Cassandra returned with the linen cloths Janet had ordered.

The last thing they did before beginning the surgery was to carefully wash their hands. Janet had theories regarding medicine and cleanliness, habits she’d picked up from long experience. Most of her peers thought she was crazy, but she had long ceased to care. When both she and Cassandra were cleaned to her satisfaction, she sent the heartsick husband back out to the kitchen and they began their work.

Lydia died during the surgery, two minutes after her son gave his first cry. Janet did not have even a brief chance to wage war with the woman’s fever. Trusting Cassandra to properly clean and bind the child, Janet began to close the wounds that Lydia had endured for the sake of this timeless battle. It was perhaps a trifle morbid, but Janet knew the new father would have hard enough a time of it without having to look at the bleeding, broken body of his wife as well. When she’d done, she closed the dead mother’s eyes. “A war within a war,” she murmured sadly.

Somewhere between the removal of Lydia’s body, the arrangements for a wet-nurse, and the cleanup of her now very soiled chamber, Janet was surprised by a visit from Lord Geoffrey.

“You look exhausted, Mistress Janet,” he said. “Come away from there. You need to sit down. Isabelle would have my head if she were here, for allowing you to work so hard without relief.”

Janet was too tired to argue. She accepted the old man’s advice without protest. After changing into a fresh dress and apron, she joined the marquis outside, grateful for the fresh air. The bright sunshine seemed mocking, however, and Janet was hard-pressed to enjoy the beauty of the midday. The marquis led her to a small bench that sat against the outer wall of the kitchen, where often the cook would sit to shell beans or see to other such tasks.

“You’ve done good work today, Janet,” Lord Geoffrey said when they’d seated. “As you’ve done every day since we arrived here. I’m very proud to have you in my house.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. “I only wish I could do more.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you did your best, and successfully brought new life into this world. Without you, it would have been an utter loss.” He peered over at her and gave a sage, careworn smile. “A new baby, Mistress Janet. This is how we will rebuild Caldora. One small, new cry at a time.”

“Yes, my lord.” Though his words were comforting, Janet knew it would be a few days before the frustration of Lydia’s death began to lessen.

They sat in silence some while longer, before Lord Geoffrey asked, “You don’t know what caused the young mother to take ill?” His question was scientific. He’d taken a casual interest Janet’s work over the years, and humored her thoughts and theories, even if he didn’t always understand them.

“None whatsoever,” Janet replied. “Perhaps something to do with the difficulty of her journey here?” She sighed and rested her head against the wall behind her. “Perhaps I’ll never know. It’s times like these that I wish the Asgard had not fled Caldora.”

“I often wish that myself. We lost a great deal of potential for advancement when the Asgard forsook us,” Geoffrey observed. He began to say something else, but his words were cut short by one of his coughing fits.

Janet sat up with concern. “How much sleep have you been getting at night, my lord?” she asked, reaching out a hand toward him.

He waved it away. As his coughs subsided, he began to chuckle. “None of that, none of that. There’s very little you can do to help this old man, even with all of your talents.” He gave a peaceful sigh. “But to answer your question, it is difficult to sleep when concerns for my people and this war leave me lying awake and restless every night.”

“You must miss Lord Cameron’s company and advice,” she observed.

“I miss all my family,” he said quietly. “I miss them most keenly now that I am at death’s door.”

Janet wished with all her heart that she could argue this last sentiment, but she’d made a habit of never lying to a patient just for the sake of comfort. Instead, she offered a sympathetic expression as Geoffrey frowned and glanced worriedly to the east.

“I was hoping Cameron would have returned by now. I hope he made it safely to Redwater.”

“I trust he did. He’s a very capable young man.”

“That he is, that he is.”

In the distance, the sentinel’s bell rang. Janet gave a start, but the marquis put out a firm hand to prevent her from rising. “Not you, my dear. You will sit here and rest. The others know what to do if they’re needed. We will wait here and let whatever news has come be brought to us for a change, shall we?” he said with a smile.

Anyone else Janet would have argued with, but there was little she could do in the face of Geoffrey’s firm insistence. Besides, her body was inclined to agree, and before long the warmth of the sun caused her to doze off.

She was jerked awake by a shout.

“My lord!” Janet’s eyes fixed almost immediately on Nicholas, who was coming across the kitchen yards at a brisk run, his face exultant.

The marquis was already rising from the bench to greet him, and Janet put out a hand to help him to his feet. “What is it, Nicholas?” he asked.

“My Lord Mitchell returns!” the young man said excitedly.

Janet could feel the thrill of excitement that coursed through the old man at these words, and he squeezed her hand tightly. “Lead on, Nicholas,” he commanded. “We will greet him at once.” Geoffrey’s face was alight with renewed hope, and Janet could hardly keep from catching his enthusiasm. She herself was filled with joy and relief to hear that Cameron was still alive, and was eager to hear his report. She was glad that Geoffrey allowed her to continue assisting him as they made their way into the governor’s house, where the marquis could properly wait upon his nephew.

Moments later, Cameron came striding confidently into the dining hall, where his uncle waited to receive him. Janet was glad to note that though he looked tired, he did not look haggard. She also thought he looked somehow older than when he’d gone, with less of the boyish nature that had so long been a part of him. He favored her with a quick smile before turning his full attention to his uncle.

“My Lord Marquis,” he said after rising from a deep bow, “I bring greetings and orders from his Majesty, King Henry.” Then Cameron’s face broke into an irrepressible grin. “And a good piece of news, my lord.”

“What is it, Cameron?” Geoffrey seemed both knowing and impatient as to what Cameron might be referring to. Janet found herself at a loss.

Cameron took a deep breath and his smile widened. He handed the letters he bore over to the marquis and said, “Your petition has been granted. My Lord John’s exile has been rescinded. Furthermore, the king was in possession of intelligence as to Lord John’s whereabouts and has already sent him word.”

Janet’s heart swelled, and she looked at Geoffrey. He was rising to his feet, a wild joy on his face. He reached out a trembling hand and Janet hurried forward to steady him. As she grasped the proffered hand, she saw two tears slip down his cheeks.

“Is this true, Cameron?” Geoffrey asked in a broken voice.

Janet glanced back at Cameron, who caught her eye with a triumphant smile before returning his attention to his uncle.

“It is true, my lord. Your son is coming home.”


End file.
